Authors: Katie M. Stout
“I only meant that we have room to improve,” he says, voice tight.
“No, I’m pretty sure you used the word ‘terrible.’ No one says their band is terrible unless they mean it. And since I’m about to spend a lot of time talking music with you, I’d like to at least understand your take on the status of your music.”
“You want to understand me?” he asks skeptically.
I shrug. “You. Your music. However you want to look at it. I can’t help if I don’t know anything about your music philosophy—even if I have zero interest in your personal life.”
He snorts. “Did your father teach you that technique?”
I bristle at his mention of Dad, and Jason notices. He smirks. “You don’t have a good relationship with him? Maybe he’s a little too tough on you? You know, it makes sense now, why you walk around like a princess—you are one. Your dad’s music royalty.”
Normally,
princess
is a positive word, but not coming out of Jason’s mouth.
“We’re not talking about me right now,” I shoot back. “How I relate to my dad is none of your business. But if you must know, yes, he
did
teach me that to work with a client, you need to have a handle on who they are as an artist. I’m sorry for trying to be of help to you. And, you know, if you think I’m such a
princess,
maybe you’d rather not work with me.” I get to my feet, ready to make a break for it.
“Wait,” he calls, just as I’m about to open the door. “I—I’m … sorry.”
I turn in time to see him grimace. Somebody’s pride doesn’t like him apologizing.
“For what?” I ask, just because I want him to suffer, to eat some humble pie.
“For offending you,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “It was—”
“Rude?” I interrupt.
“Yes.”
“You’re right. It was.” I head back to my chair. “But you’re forgiven.”
For now, anyway.
“So what’s the song you want to work on?”
He lets out an almost imperceptible sigh, like he’s relieved we’re back on good
ish
terms, and hands me a piece of sheet music that’s been scribbled on and has lines totally crossed out and rewritten. It’s a complete mess, but amidst the sloppy revisions, I can see a clear melody that takes me by surprise.
“This is … different,” I say.
“Do you want me to play it for you?” he offers.
“No, I think I’ve got it.”
“Without hearing it?”
“I hear it in my head.”
He hesitates to agree with me but stays silent anyway.
I hum a few bars, tracing my finger along with each subsequent note. “What is this song for? It doesn’t really go with all the other songs I’ve heard you guys play.”
“It’s for a TV show. They want me to write the theme song.”
“What TV show?”
“A Korean one.”
“Obviously.”
His eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing, just lets me think.
“Is this all you have?” I hand back the page.
“Right now. I’ve been trying to finish the chorus before I write any of the verses.” He looks at me expectantly, a gleam of insecurity in his eyes that strikes me as not only out of character but also incredibly adorable. “What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s not bad. I … kind of like it, actually.” Surprise, surprise. “But it’s still a little too clean-cut, you know? Everything is just so even. Where’s the syncopation? Where’s the jazz? It’s like you’re trying to write something a little more bluesy but you’re stuck in a pop mind-set. You need to step out of the box. Right now, you’re the Beatles, but you want to be the Rolling Stones. Does that make sense?”
I search my brain for the correct terminology, but without a background in classical music, I come up short. Why didn’t I listen to Dad when he told me to take those music theory classes? Two years of piano in middle school gave me enough info to sight-read, but I have no idea how to explain what I’m hearing in my head.
“I don’t really know how to describe it,” I say, “but it’s like you’re trying to fit a rock ‘n’ roll song into the conventions of pop music, and you’re coming up with this, which isn’t really either.”
“So you’re saying it’s bad?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” A growl rumbles in the back of my throat, my irritation swelling, not at Jason but at my own inability to articulate what I want to say. “There just needs to be more blues influences. I’m telling you. It needs to be grungier, groovier, more down-home.”
“You do realize that I’m not trying to write a country song, right?”
“Yes,” I snap. “But you asked for my opinion, so I’m giving it. You also said that you think your music is bad. Maybe if you listened to my suggestions, you’d like it better.”
I’m ready for him to throw back a quip, but he just stares down at the sheet music. He mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but when I’m about to ask him to speak up—preferably, in English—he says, “I think that’s enough for today. We can come back tomorrow.”
The way he avoids my gaze, a pinprick of guilt shoots through me. Could he be insecure about his music, if he feels it’s not as good as it should be?
“I didn’t … hurt your feelings, did I?” I ask.
His back goes rigid. “What?”
“I just want to make sure I wasn’t too harsh or anything.”
He levels a condescending glare at me. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me feel bad about myself, Grace.”
And just like that, any feelings of companionship that had blossomed between us die. But I can’t help noticing that this is the first time he’s used my name. And coming from his lips, it sounds good.
I lie in bed on Saturday morning, staring up at Sophie’s bunk as pale morning light filters through the cracks in the closed blinds. My phone’s heavy in my hands, Jane’s message reverberating inside my head. We’ve sent at least a dozen messages back and forth over the course of the almost five weeks I’ve been in Korea. But not until her last one did I feel the least bit guilty.
Mom’s pissed at you,
she wrote.
Why haven’t you talked to her yet? EMAIL HER!
I pull up email on my phone, skipping over another message from the same reporter, and begin a message to Momma. But my fingers freeze over the keypad. What should I write? I finally manage to type out:
Momma,
School’s going well. I like my physics class a lot. My roommate is really nice, and I’m helping out her brother with a song he’s writing. I’m getting tired of eating rice every day, and I miss you guys.
Grace
The last bit is an exaggeration—I do
not
miss everyone, her included. But I don’t think saying so will help our relationship any. The letter should most likely be longer, but I can’t think of anything else to say, so it’ll have to do. And, if I let my thoughts linger on Momma and the rest of the family for much longer, memories will surface. And I can’t face those. Not yet.
I also fire off a message to Dad, which is just as brief, but I know he won’t answer.
Sophie shifts on top of her mattress and pokes her head down at my bunk. Sans glasses, she squints at me like I’m tiny print.
“What are your plans for tonight?” she asks.
“Well, considering I really have no other friends besides you, I would say doing whatever it is you’re doing.”
She beams. “Today’s my birthday.”
“What?”
I sit up so quickly, I bump my head against the slats above me. “Ow!”
She only giggles. “Tae Hwa texted me and said to be ready at six. What do you think we’re doing?”
I rub the sore spot on the crown of my head. “I don’t know. A party, maybe?”
“I don’t think so. Jason doesn’t like being around a lot of people, and it’s his birthday, too, so Tae Hwa and Yoon Jae would have taken that into consideration.”
“Oh, right, you guys are twins.”
Jason’s birthday? My brain attempts to comprehend what this means, but I can’t come up with any significance. We’re hardly friends. I have no responsibility toward him, including getting him a birthday present or being a part of the planning committee for a party. I
should,
however, have been part of the planning for Sophie’s sake. I’m the worst roommate ever.
I crawl out of bed and search my wardrobe for something clean to wear. “So if we’re not leaving until six, what are you going to do until then?”
“Probably study. I have a test on Monday.”
“Okay, well, I need to run a few errands before we leave.” I snag a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a Twisted Sister T-shirt, which I pair with combat boots and the largest sunglasses I own, to hide the fact that I’m wearing no makeup.
“You need to go buy me a present?” Sophie guesses.
“What? No!”
She laughs. “I’m not offended. Just make sure you don’t get lost. Maybe you should take one of the boys with you.”
I tie on my boots and steal Yoon Jae’s number from Sophie’s phone. He picks up after the second ring, and we make plans to meet in front of the dining hall. After brushing my teeth and fluffing my hair as much as humanly possible, I head out.
Yoon Jae’s leaning against the stair railing that leads up to the dining hall, and a grin brightens his face when he sees me.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“Anywhere on this island that I can find a present for Sophie.”
We end up in the town at the bottom of the mountain, at the Korean version of Walmart. Yoon Jae follows me around the store without complaint, but as I keep wandering, unable to find anything, I can see him mentally checking out.
At least we haven’t been assaulted by fans. Yoon Jae told me the locals on Ganghwa Island are used to seeing famous people or kids of famous people who go to the school. Plus, most everyone we’ve seen in town has been over fifty, and I doubt any of them are big Eden fans.
Finally, I find a pale pink mini-dress with a tulle skirt and a lace bodice I think Sophie will like. Then I pick out a faux pearl necklace and I’m done.
On the way out, we pass a music section. I should walk by, but I find myself heading over and buying a pack of guitar picks with the American flag on them. Just because it would be hysterical to see Jason play with them. Also, I’m a nice person who buys birthday presents for people who irritate me.
When we get back on the bus to head to school, it’s three thirty. Before Yoon Jae and I part ways back on campus, I ask, “What exactly is the plan for tonight?”
“I don’t know. Tae Hwa planned everything. But you should wear something nice. Like what you bought Sophie.”
I climb the steps to the dorm laughing, but my mind rifles through my wardrobe for potential outfits. When I get to our room, I find Sophie vamping herself up with lots of eyeliner.
“So, what did you buy me?” she asks with a grin.
I pull the dress and necklace out of the bag, and she squeals. A stream of Korean spills out of her mouth, and she bounces up and down with the dress pressed against her chest.
“Can I wear it tonight?” she asks.
“Of course!” I laugh. “Why else do you think I bought it?”
We spend the remaining time primping to our hearts’ content. I settle on a thigh-length black dress with an empire waist and bell skirt, which I pair with neon yellow heels that make my legs look maybe half as skinny as Sophie’s. Absently, I wonder what Jason will think of my dress. At least I know Yoon Jae will appreciate it.
By the time Tae Hwa calls Sophie to let her know they’re waiting downstairs, my insides are squirming with excitement. We could be riding around on the subway for four hours straight and I think I would have fun—amazing, what some mascara and high heels will do for your outlook on life.
The boys congregate just outside the building. Tae Hwa’s attention attaches to Sophie like a magnet, and my heart melts a little just seeing the way he looks at her. If they don’t start dating tonight, I’m going to shake her until she snatches him up.
Yoon Jae greets me with, “You look great!”
But I find my gaze sliding to Jason. Despite the warmth in the air, he’s dressed in black jeans, a white graphic tee, and a hoodie under a caramel-colored leather jacket, his tousled black hair almost hanging in his eyes. My chest constricts just looking at him.
Get a grip, Grace. This is Jason. Condescending. Arrogant. Snobby. Sexy.
And that sexiness is obnoxious.
As a group, we head down the sidewalk, our voices and laughter surrounding us like a protective bubble that nothing can penetrate to kill our buzz. Instead of catching a bus, Tae Hwa leads us to a shiny black limousine sitting in front of the entrance to the school.
Sophie squeals as we all pile in, but the leather seats and minibar only remind me of riding with Nathan to the Grammys a couple years ago. But Yoon Jae starts taking drink orders, and I refuse to think about home tonight.
We drive into Incheon, and the limo drops us off at a nightclub. We zip past the line outside, and when the guys at the door recognize the boys, we’re let in immediately, without showing IDs or anything.
I’m expecting the typical bar, but instead of the usual hip-hop music and cocktails, the club has a more indie vibe, with dark wood paneling and Korean rock wailing through the speakers. The bass buzzes up through the scuffed floor and into my body, and I wonder why Jason and Eden don’t just play this kind of music, if it already exists in Korea.
We make our way around the crowded dance floor to the bar, where we snag two barstools. Immediately, a crowd of fans forms a crushing circle around us. Yoon Jae and Tae Hwa pose for pictures, and Jason even signs a few autographs. But Sophie shoos the people away a few minutes later.
“It’s my birthday!” she cries in English, amidst giggles. “No more signing autographs!”
Yoon Jae orders our group a round of drinks, but I decline.
He leans close to me and says, “No one will say something if I buy you a drink. I’m famous, remember? I can do whatever I want.”
He winks, but I shake my head, anxiety clutching at my gut.
I force a smile. “No, I’m fine, really.”
I’ve seen what alcohol can do to a person, and I’m not ready to get in line behind my brother. I order a soda instead.